


Seoul ephemera

by Anonymous



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Comfort/Angst, Depression, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Meetings, Heavy Angst, If any of the content in the tags triggers u PLS do not read, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mentally Ill Character, No ao3 warnings apply but PLS read the tags seriously, Of a past suicide attempt, Platonic!ChangBang, References to Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, There might be some fluff buried under the angst, but once again there is a relatively detailed description, but the ending is pretty happy :), by graphic i mean detailed, by “graphic” in this fic i purely mean detailed, chat fic elements, graphic descriptions of depression, juxtaposed to the rest of the fic haha, mentions of past suicide attempts, minor text fic interludes, non-graphic past suicide attempts, suicidal character, supporting someone w/ mental illness, supportive best friend!Chan, there is no blood or gore in this fic, this is overall not a happy fic, vague fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:22:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22533934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Changbin is over living. Completely, utterly over it. Life is stupid, and painful, and a waste of time prolonging the inevitable; death.So Changbin is going to beat life at its own trivial little game—he's going take his death into his own hands.He's going to kill himself. Hence, why he's standing on the skimpy ledge of Wonhyo Bridge in Seoul.What's the use in trudging through each day with that ceaseless aching in his heart? Might as well just get it over with already, and nip the pain in the visceral little bud.And he was about to, until another boy clambered over the metal barrier of the bridge, teetering on the ledge a few feet away from him.Call it a coincidence, call it fate. But as it happens for Changbin, he'll end up calling it love.Based on the prompt: “You wanna kill yourself and I wanna kill myself and we both meet on this bridge that we’re gonna jump off, but we end up talking each other out of suicide” AU
Relationships: Lee Minho | Lee Know/Seo Changbin
Comments: 7
Kudos: 111
Collections: Anonymous





	Seoul ephemera

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ BEFORE STARTING THE FIC: 
> 
> I have struggled with depression and suicidal thoughts for the majority of my adolescent/adult life. I have been in the hospital because of a suicide attempt. No, i am not romanticizing depression. No, i am not romanticizing suicidal thoughts. This should hopefully be fully apparent once you read the fic, if you decide to.
> 
> My depression has stolen a lot from me, and thanks to stray kids i have been able to take my life back. This fic is founded on MY PERSONAL experience with MY depression—i basically based Changbin’s entire character on my views of life with depression/suicidal thoughts. If you have depression and have gone through different experiences, please do not comment any hate regarding how i handled the topic, as it based purely on my life. Thank you. 
> 
> If any of this would be triggering to you, i beg of you not to read. This fic was cathartic for me personally to write, but the last thing i want is one of you feeling off after reading. Please check the tags, as well as the guide of what this fic does and does not include i have written below before reading! 
> 
> Things this fic DOES include:  
> \- descriptions of past suicide attempts  
> \- detailed description of life with depression  
> \- suicidal thoughts and actions 
> 
> Things this fic does NOT include:  
> \- blood/gore  
> \- self harm  
> \- drugs  
> \- any harm coming to the boys

Changbin awoke feeling more motivated than he has in months. Maybe even  _ years. _

And he has good reason for the fiery spark of life he feels burning a hole through his stomach—an albeit  _ ironic  _ reason, at that.

Today, Changbin is going to kill himself. He will wipe his soul from existence, like one smudges a faded marker off a whiteboard. A clean slate. He’s ready to punch his ticket—next stop,  _ death.  _

Changbin has struggled with suicidal thoughts for the majority of his life, in tandem with the depression he’s suffered with since his early teenage years. He barely remembers a time he didn’t feel so utterly  _ hopeless  _ day in and day out. He’s always so fucking  _ sad,  _ so despairing and  _ numb.  _

God, he’s so fucking numb. He might as well be living through someone else’s body, with how detached and forgein his own corporeality has become. Seeing through a stranger’s eyes, talking through a foreign mouth.  _ Living.  _ What a stupid concept. From the minute you’re born until the minute your geriatric heart gives out, you’re expected to be  _ happy.  _ Innocent and happy and impervious to sadness and sorrow. 

That’s how Changbin was raised—in a polished mansion outside Gangnam in Seoul. He was reared in a bubble of luxury, of  _ perfection.  _ His parents did everything in their power to make Changbin as happy as possible,  _ whenever  _ possible. His family has no...shortage of funds, to put it simply. He’s a textbook  _ Silver Spoon,  _ from a cursory glance. But Changbin couldn’t give two shits about his family’s money; he spit that proverbial silver spoon out of his mouth as if it were poison. It’s never helped him. 

All it did was go to psychologist after psychologist, each licking their chops at the  _ Seo  _ name on their credit cards and uncaring of the withering teenage boy crumbling before their eyes. 

_ Just teach yourself how to be happy! _

_ Just will away the depression! It’s easy! _

Bullshit. All of it, utter  _ bullshit.  _ Leave it to the people who don’t go through the same daily mental anguish as you to write off your pain as something so trivial. Meaningless. Just think it away? How fucking  _ stupid  _ do they think Changbin is? 

If it was that easy, he would’ve  _ thought  _ away his depression  _ years  _ ago. Do they think he  _ likes  _ dreading each new day, for fear of the despair that has permeated his heart reawakening? 

Changbin used to think of himself as a bird; something free and weightless. He  _ used  _ to be like that, when he was younger. When life was easier. But then the depression started. With each day of sadness, a proverbial feather was plucked from his wings. Soon, Changbin’s invisible set of wings have been stripped of their down; leaving him flightless. Earthbound. Crestfallen, at nothing in particular, save for the sharpened knife edge  _ life _ holds up to his throat. 

Changbin doesn't remember the first time he tried to kill himself. It was years ago, undoubtedly, and the memories are just fuzzy enough to be unreachable. They're gauzy memories, partly visible through a wrapping of metaphoric bandages but still largely hidden from view. Maybe Changbin prefers it that way. 

He doesn't recall the first time he tried to off himself, but that doesn't mean it was the last. Failure after failure after failure; Changbin is still here on earth. In Seoul. And he  _ hates _ it. 

Changbin hates his brain. Hates that it's against him, that it betrayed him in the most primal of ways. It makes him want to die, then when he tries to do just that it keeps the inky abyss of death just out of reach. Stupid chemical imbalances and even stupider survival instincts. 

Now Changbin is nineteen, and he’s  _ done.  _ He’s completely over this sham he calls “living”. Like it can even be considered that. 

He just wants the pain to  _ end.  _ The aching in his heart that never lets up, the heaviness in his muscles that effectively kept him out of the gym for months, the impenetrable smog of sadness that roosts on his shoulders. His once powerful biceps have all but wasted away to nothingness, his eyes are glazed and heavy-set in his skull. 

Life is a maze, prickly and cruel and looking to trip you at every turn. And Changbin is  _ passed  _ trapped. He just wants out—and today, he’ll get just that. 

It’s just prolonging the inevitable, the mundane everyday. We  _ all  _ die. There’s no cheating it, no escaping it. Changbin wants to shove his death in life’s stupid, daisy covered face.  _ I beat you! I died on my own terms!  _ Changbin would love to scream at life when his soul finally escapes his body. 

In that sense, a bubble of excitement Changbin hasn’t felt in  _ months  _ began to erupt in his tummy. That’s right—he’s going to give life a piece of his mind. He can hardly wait. 

Changbin threw on a hoodie and ripped jeans, and left his studio apartment. With is parent’s money, he could’ve chosen a fucking  _ penthouse  _ after graduating highschool, but he wanted something modest. And simple. His clean, light-filled studio did the trick. 

In a way, he considered it “temporary housing”; something with an expiration date. He’s been planning this for a while, and he didn’t want to make his parents waste any more money on him when he’ll be dead before his 20th birthday. At least, if everything goes according to plan. 

He tried not to think about his parents. In fact, he  _ forced _ himself not to think about his parents. It would only make this harder. 

He shut off all the lights, closed all his draws, and made his humble apartment look  _ spotless— _ verging on appearing never lived in. Might as well leave it tidy for whoever finds their way there next. He didn’t bother taking his house keys—a symbol of finality. He won’t be coming back. 

Changbin shut his apartment door with the metallic click of the lock activating. Music to his ears. A smile tugged onto his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His heart rolled in his chest—it feels painfully empty. Like his smile, and his eyes.

Seo Changbin is emptiness personified. 

As soon as he got into the hallway, his phone buzzed in his pocket; undoubtedly a message from his best friend Chan, who makes a point to text Changbin every morning to check up on him.

Chan has gone through his own struggles with mental illness, and he understands Changbin more than  _ anyone  _ ever has. In a way, Chan has become more a family to Changbin than his true flesh and blood. A one-person family, but if  _ anyone  _ could make Changbin think twice before ending his life, it’s Chan. 

In fact, he already  _ has.  _ A year ago, Changbin shoveled an entire bottle of pills down his throat. Chan, apparently being more intuitive and perceptive than Changbin gave him credit for, all but busted down Changbin’s door after not receiving a reply to his text for over an hour. He said he had a feeling something was wrong—Changbin still doesn’t know what to make of that. Divine intervention? 

He always had an inkling in the back of his mind that Chan is something heavenly.

Chan forced Changbin to throw up the pills—he took him to the hospital anyways, just in case. And he stayed by Changbin’s side through the night, through the prying nurses asking Changbin a million and one questions, through the IV shoved into the crook of his elbow, through it  _ all.  _

Changbin never told his parents about his hospital stay from a year ago. He’s content to keep that between him and his brother—Chan. 

Just thinking about Chan made a pang ring through Changbin’s chest. More than anyone, Changbin will miss  _ him.  _ He’s done so much to keep Changbin  _ here,  _ he can’t help but feel like a terrible excuse for a friend. Feel guilty, at the thought of him. All that effort on Chan’s part to keep Changbin firmly planted in the world of the living are on the precipice of falling to waste.

But he  _ has  _ to do this. No ifs, ands, or buts. He has to end this pain. He can’t take another day of it. 

His phone buzzed again. He decided he might as well answer, say goodbye in the most surreptitious way possible. 

_ Channie Bangie: Hey Bin!  _

_ Channie Bangie: hows it going? Wanna go out to the movies tonight?  _

_ Sent at 1:21 p.m. _

Goddamn Chan. Why is always so terrible with timing? 

_ Binnie: oh sorry chan I’m a little busy tonight _

_ Binnie: i love you, by the way  _

At that, Changbin felt a wash of tears dash onto his eyes. It stung, it  _ burned  _ like gasoline was piped into his tear ducts. He loves Chan. He really, really does. And he doesn’t  _ want  _ to leave him, but he knows he’ll be miserable for the rest of his sorry excuse for a life if he doesn’t rip the proverbial bandaid off, and  _ die.  _

His phone dinged again, not even a minute later. 

_ Channie Bangie: i love you too! Is everything ok? _

_ Sent at 1:21 p.m. _

Uh oh, Changbin shouldn’t have said that—he must have roused Chan’s finely tuned Changbin-danger-meter. Oh well. It needed to be said, so he doesn’t die with regrets. 

He better get going, before Chan unceremoniously bursts through the door of his apartment again.

Not like he’ll find anything. 

Not like he’ll find Changbin. 

_  
  
  
_

XXX

_  
  
  
_

Wonhyo Bridge stretches like a python across the mighty Han River, connecting the bowels of Seoul with the districts of Yongsan-gu and Yeongdeungpo-gu. 

It hangs hundreds of feet above the roaring river, like a rusted swatch of cloth, pulled taut and prickling with chipped paint from its decade old construction. 

It’s perfect. 

Why is it perfect? Mainly, because it has a designated pedestrian lane, segregated from the constant stream of traffic barreling down the bridge itself. Changbin may have a death wish, but playing a game of Frogger in 8-lanes of Seoul traffic sounds  _ pretty  _ grim. There’s better options than being creamed by an 18-wheeler, Changbin thinks. 

Hence, why he’s standing flush against the metal guard rail that separates the pedestrian road from the hundred foot drop into the Han River. He felt his phone buzz in his back pocket again—it’s Chan, no question. He must be worried. So  _ agonizingly  _ worried that Changbin felt a molten tingle of guilt nibble at his flesh. 

_ It’ll be over soon _ , he placated himself.  _ He’ll be free of me soon, I won’t burden him ever again.  _

His guilt turned to barely restrained relief. Bordering on joy. 

He hooked one leg over the guard rail, his hands clamped onto the frigid metal to steady himself. He planted one foot on the opposite side of the barrier, and like clockwork, he clambered over until he is stood firmly on the outside of the bridge. 

No cars stopped. No horns blared. No one tried to stop him. It must be his lucky day. 

He heaved in a shuddering breath as he took in the stretch of open space before him; the Han River slithers below,  _ miles  _ below him, its banks swollen and churning with froth from the small waves that ripple across its surface. 

It looks cold, unbearably cold. But then again, the air embracing him on the bridge isn’t much better—his teeth started to chatter as soon as he stepped foot onto the pedestrian road. 

_ This is it,  _ Changin mused to himself, his bag-laden eyes taking in every inch of his surroundings. Traffic screamed behind him, tires grinding against the pavement and whooshing past him like petals in the wind. 

Changbin blocked it out, only concentrating on the beating of his heart. It still hurts,  _ physically  _ hurts so, so  _ bad.  _ He just wants it to stop. 

He better get to this, before some self-righteous “Good Samaritan” tries to pull him back over the edge of the bridge.

He closed his eyes, clearing his mind of all the years of mental agony. He retracted his hands from where they were white-knuckle gripping the railing, and then he prepared to—

What is  _ that? _

He distinctly heard...clanking? Metallic clanking, like shoes smacking lead pipes. 

He cracked his eyes open, looking to his left, where he heard the sounds coming from. 

And, lo and behold, what does Changbin see?

A boy. A boy, probably not much older than Changbin himself, shimmying over the railing of the bridge, as Changbin did. Expect this boy looks absolutely  _ terrified,  _ if his trembling hands and wobbly knees mean anything. 

_ Really?  _ Changbin assumed people have commited suicide from this bridge before, but  _ really?  _ Another guy comes  _ right  _ as he's about to jump? 

He's not gonna lie, he expected a  _ bit  _ more privacy. He's says that like he isn't stood in full view on one of the busiest bridges in all of Seoul. 

“Uh, hello?” Changbin called out to the new addition to the ledge. 

The boy’s head of ruffled brown hair snapped up, instantly finding Changbin’s eyes like a magnet—as if he  _ somehow  _ didn't notice Changbin, the lone figure on the otherwise barren lane. Changbin’s breath momentarily caught in his throat when their gaze met. This guy is... _ gorgeous.  _ His skin is milky white, a perfect canvas spotless and free of any blemish. His jaw is angular, in the sculpted sort of way Changbin could never achieve. His nose is sharp, his lips thin yet pretty pink and shimmering with gloss. 

His eyes are severely reddened, and puffy. The irises are still a lovely shade of hazel, but their beauty is muddled by the sobs that must have wracked through the boy’s body. That must have driven him  _ here.  _

“H-hi.” The boy responded, and Changbin had to strain to hear him over the nonstop traffic racing behind them. 

“What are you doing?” Changbin shouted over the din of screeching tires and rushing wind—as if it isn’t  _ obvious  _ what the boy’s doing. It’s not like people spend a fine day in Seoul traipsing the ledge of a bridge. 

He doesn’t know why he’s grasping for conversation with this, clearly distraught, boy. This boy, who looks about two seconds from jumping off the same bridge as Changbin himself.

“The same thing as you.” The boy shouted back, and this time Changbin heard him loud and clear over the stampede of cars. Oh. Right. 

Changbin didn’t know how to respond to that. So he didn’t; he returned his gaze to the rushing river unfurled below them.  _ Them.  _ He’s not alone anymore. 

He doesn’t know how to feel about that. But he can’t deny, it  _ is  _ nice to have some company, if this is truly to be his final moments.

_ “If”?! Where did this “if” come from! I’m serious about this, Seo Changbin!  _ Changbin snapped at his own subconscious, shaking his head of raven locks to get his mind back on track. 

“What’s your name?” It’s the other boy asking the questions, this time. 

“Seo Changbin. You?”

“Lee Minho. Like the actor.” The other boy— _ Minho— _ supplied, and the hint of a smile upturned his lips. For some reason, Changbin felt his skin warm marginally. 

They’re chatting like they stopped at a cafe for lunch; not like they’re literally standing precariously on the edge of a  _ bridge,  _ poised to jump into oblivion.

“Why are you doing this, Minho?” Changbin shouldn’t have asked. He knows more than anyone that’s not...proper etiquette. Minho  _ obviously  _ has his reasons, and Changbin is in no place to pry. 

But he’s finding himself increasingly desperate to talk to Minho, to hear his voice drown out the cacophony of vehicles behind them. Each time he blinked, Minho’s smile—small and hardly perceptible it may have been—flashed behind his eyelids; virtually tattooed onto his brain. 

Minho’s expression faltered, his bottom lip quivered and a wash of emotion blanketed his blood-shot eyes. Changbin was right, he  _ really  _ shouldn’t have asked. 

“I-I’m a dancer, and I was kicked off my team because I-I can’t afford the monthly fee anymore. Dancing is my life! I can’t live without it! I tried to scrounge up enough to get me back on the team b-but it wasn’t enough and I’m so  _ sad,  _ I can’t take it anymore! I jus—”

Minho’s cheeks are beginning to turn beet red, his pale skin flushing with heat as the broken words desperately tumbled from his trembling lips. It made Changbin’s heart ache. 

“Minho! Calm down, you’re working yourself up!” Changbin effectively shut up the ranting boy with a gentle wave of his hands, carefully scooting closer to Minho. It’s not easy to scuttle his way towards the other like he’s merely on a balance beam, but he found himself willing to give it a try. For Minho. 

Minho, who leveled Changbin with a palpably unimpressed glower.

“Calm down? You’re in the same spot as me! I’ll calm down when you’re talking to me from the other side of the railing!” He shot back, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Well, Changbin can’t really argue with that, can he. Minho is right—he’s in  _ no  _ position to preach. A ruby blush now crept up Changbin’s neck, his eyes darting to the ground as he mumbled out a whimpered “I’m sorry. _ ”  _

He knows what he has to do—to  _ say.  _ Maybe not consciously, but something deep within knows, and for that Changbin is thankful. 

“M-my family has money. I can give you their phone number, and they’ll gladly pay for your dance team membership, if you tell them it was their son’s final wish. Which it is, by the way. If dancing is your dream and  _ I  _ could help you get off this bridge and back in a studio, then I’ll die happily.” Changbin didn’t consciously feel the words drip off his tongue and into Minho’s ears, but he’s glad his subconscious took the reins of his brain for once. 

Minho looked appropriately taken aback, but he didn’t have the grandiose reaction Changbin expected. 

Rather, Minho’s hardened expression softened almost instantaneously; he took a meager step forward to place a hand on Chanbing’s shoulder. 

“Why are  _ you _ here, Changbin?” 

Minho’s tone isn’t judgy, or accusatory, or condescending like the myriad of psychologists Changbin spent the majority of his teenage years flitting between like a lost spirit. He sounds  _ melancholy,  _ saddened on Changbin’s behalf, even. 

Changbin pushed a gulp down his throat. He might as well be honest, what’s the use in hiding his reasoning  _ now?  _

“I have depression. I’ve  _ had  _ depression for years, I should say. It’s...unbearable, to put it simply. I’m done with living in pain everyday, and I just want to get it  _ over  _ with already.” Changbin spat out, his lips unconsciously curling into a snarl. 

Minho’s adam’s apple visibly bobbed as he shoveled a thick gulp down his throat. “I understand, b-but I wish you wouldn’t.” Minho mumbled. Changbin still had to strain to hear him again, in spite of their newly increased proximity. 

Changbin’s eyes flew up to meet Minho’s, his lips parted in shock at Minho’s admission. He felt utterly taken aback; why would Minho say such a thing? They’ve only met a few moments prior! 

So he asked Minho that very question. He feared Minho might not have heard him, as a particularly verbose seagull decided to caw above their heads at that specific moment. 

“Well, you seem like a really good person. You just comforted me when I told you what I’m going through—Hell, you just offered for  _ your  _ family to pay for  _ my  _ dance fees, just so I won’t jump! And I just wish you wouldn’t do  _ this _ . I think the world needs you, Changbin.” 

Seems Minho heard Changbin loud and clear. It’s moot; Changbin’s throat isn’t allowing him to choke any words out in response. His brain feels like its in a rickety washing machine, bashing against his skull as Minho’s words battered his mind. 

_ I think the world needs you.  _

That single sentence reverberated between his ears like a sonic boom, and he felt tears flood his eyes. If Minho noticed, he didn’t say anything. 

In fact, it seemed a realization exploded in the back of Minho’s skull, threatening to knock him unconscious.

“C-Changbin, I think we’re making a mistake, both of us.” Minho’s voice cracked like glass, each syllable broken beyond repair and rusted around the edges in the way only raw emotion can make them. His chestnut irises are all but hidden beneath a sea of shimmering tears. 

And before Changbin could begin to react, Minho shoved both his hands into Changbin’s, squeezing his digits with enough force to snap each finger. Changbin would gladly get ten little casts, if it means getting to hold hands with Minho for another minute. 

“W-what? Minho, what are you talking about?” 

“Jumping! I-I don’t think we should! W-we both don’t want the other to, s-so let’s just stay together and...not? Wanna go out for coffee now, or something?” Tears, small crystalline beads, are now unabashedly cascading down Minho’s cheeks. 

They snaked down his artfully sculpted face, before dripping off his chiseled jawline and onto his thin t-shirt. Like little Han Rivers are flowing from his eyes, mimicking the gaping body of water still running beneath them. Minho must be so cold—he’s only wearing a t-shirt, after all. Changbin wants to wrap him in a blanket, and maybe in his arms while he’s at it. 

“Coffee? Minho, are you asking me out?!” Changbin all but shrieked in incredulity. Of course, he wouldn’t be opposed—not in the  _ slightest— _ but they're still perched on the ledge of Wonhyo Bridge, hundreds of miles above the ground. Where they  _ were  _ going to jump. If? Were? Changbin’s previously impenetrable confidence began to officially waver. He’s not terribly upset about it.

“N-no? Yes? Maybe! Look, I just want to get  _ both  _ of us as far away from this bridge as possible!” Minho cried, sniffling as his tears began to peter out. He tightened his grip on Changbin’s hands, and tugged them lightly towards the other side of the guard rail. 

Minho is...kind of adorable when he’s ranting like this. A smile bloomed on Changbin’s lips, delicate like baby’s breath but as luminous as a patch of crisp yellow roses. It’s wide, and genuine, and maybe a little goofy. Changbin, for once in his life, didn’t care. 

His  _ life.  _ When he came to the bridge, he never expected to  _ leave.  _ He fully expected to give the bridge a final once over, mentally say his goodbyes to Chan and his family, and then  _ fall.  _ Fall, like an angel stripped of its wings. To his death. To the end of his  _ life.  _ His life which he despised, hated with the power of a thousand suns. And maybe he still does, but right now the constant pain in his heart feels...softened? Numbed, from the inside out. A comforting numbness, cushioning his heart. He used to trudge through each day like a ghost, but now it feels as if his soul has been revived and stuffed back within his chest. The numbness that used to  _ be  _ Changbin is now  _ in  _ Changbin, cradling his aching heart like a bed of gossamer. 

His heart isn’t even hurting—at least right now. It’s just  _ there.  _ Beating steady in his chest, like it should be. 

“U-um,” Changbin began, a pinch of worry now worming its way into his tummy. He knows that once he answers, either positively or negatively, there’s  _ no _ going back. It’s non refundable. 

He looked at Minho, at the crimson blush on his cheeks and the dark violet circles under his eyes that verged on black. Minho looks like he needs someone—like  _ he  _ needs Changbin. Maybe, Minho is Changbin’s world. The world that needs him, just as desperately as he needs it. 

He knows what he has to say. 

“Yeah, ok. Let’s...go get coffee, Minho.” 

There’s no going back now. Not with how Minho’s eyes immediately brightened, how his downturned lips burst into a beaming grin, how he began to usher the pair towards the infamous guardrail once again. Changbin’s not dying today, that is for certain. 

In a sad turn of events, Minho had to let go of Changbin’s hands in order to climb back over the waist-high railing, and back onto the pedestrian lane. Changbin couldn’t stop the sigh of relief that tore from his lungs at the sight of Minho safely away from the unencumbered stretch of air below the bridge. 

While Changbin  _ did  _ instantly miss the warmth of Minho’s hand in his, he didn’t have to mope for long; Minho reached a hand out to Changbin, leaning over the guardrail as their fingers intertwined again. With Minho’s help, Changbin pushed himself over the rust-covered metal until his feet landed mere inches from Minho’s on the other side. 

Their eyes met, clear and bright and free from tears and sorrow. For now, they’re...content. Dare Changbin even say he’s  _ happy  _ with the sudden turn of events. Genuinely happy, for the first time in years.

“So, coffee?” Minho asked with an expectant raise of his eyebrows. 

Changbin barked out a laugh, his smile returning to his lips as if it has never left. “Yes, Minho. Coffee.” 

Minho smiled, and Changbin felt an arrow pierce his heart as if Cupid himself took to the skies above Wonhyo Bridge, with a target set only on Seo Changbin. 

They turned in unison, their hands still clasped together as they began their idle stroll down the pedestrian road. 

Within a few minutes, Wonhyo Bridge was left far in the distance. Han River continued to roar, but its banks are empty—free of two bodies floating amongst the reeds.

_  
  
  
_

XXX

_  
  
  
_

“You can’t cure me, you know.” Changbin observed, watching Minho over the lid of his white chocolate mocha as he took a sip. The brew is thick, and not overtly cloying. It’s saccharine goodness, but more importantly it’s  _ warm.  _ Changbin felt the residual chill of the air on the bridge begin to seep from his muscles. 

Minho hummed in response, absentmindedly swirling his own cup of coffee—some matcha concoction Changbin isn’t brave enough to try. 

“I don’t want to ‘cure you’, Changbin.” Minho stated, with a pair of exaggerated air quotes to boot, “I just want to _be_ there for you when you need me. I don’t want you to change, and I don’t expect _me_ _to_ change what’s been a part of you for all these years.” He punctuated his stream of consciousness with a hearty swig of his latte, before continuing,

“And if you try to commit suicide again in the future, well, that's ok, because it's how you were feeling at the time. But realize this now: I’m going to be there to stop you.” 

Minho finished,  _ really  _ finished this time. He heaved a breath of trembling finality, but the confidence and assurity in his eyes is powerful enough to make Changbin’s heart flutter. 

Changbin smiled, gulping down another sip of his coffee so he didn’t choke in his haste to answer. 

“Thanks. I, uh, really appreciate you saying that. I’ll be there for you too, of course.” Changbin began, his eyes meeting Minho’s across their shared table. Minho nodded eagerly, a smile tugging onto his lips for the umpteenth time since their... _ unforgettable _ meeting. 

“Depression isn’t something that just goes  _ away  _ when you meet someone you like, you know? It’s always  _ there,  _ lurking beneath the surface, no matter how hard someone in your life tries to get in between.” Changbin felt himself beginning to rant, so he stopped himself in his tracks by shoving his coffee cup to his lips once again, and sucking down a hearty gulp. 

“I’m glad I have someone who really understands that.” 

His coffee is still pretty hot. He burnt his throat a little. Talking hurt quite a bit, but he gladly worked through the pain. 

Minho nodded sagely, content to let Changbin’s words hang in the air, nestle on their shoulders like a blanket. They came from the heart, and Minho doesn’t want to downplay Changbin’s feelings—especially when they’re so damn  _ real _ . 

Until the silence began to stretch on, teetering on the cusp of awkward. Minho decided that’s his cue to shake things up. 

“So,” he drawled, “are you saying you like me, Changbin?” He cocked his brow, his lip quirking up into a matching expression of wicked knowing. 

Changbin sputtered, blushing scarlet from his neck to the tips of his ears. 

“N-no! Yes? Maybe!” Changbin choked past the baseball sized lump in his throat, unconsciously parroting Minho’s exclamation from earlier. 

“I like you too, Binnie.” Minho cooed, sending Changbin a devilish wink before innocently taking a sip of coffee. 

Changbin has a feeling he’s got his work cut out for him with this one. But he surprisingly doesn’t mind, not in the slightest. 

He has another feeling, one deep and recessed in his brain. 

Minho saved his life today. As much as Changbin saved Minho’s, of course, but Changbin can’t stop  _ thinking  _ about what he said before.

_ I think the world needs you, Changbin. _

A sentiment so simple holds so much gravity to Changbin. He wants that one sentence tattooed on his arm, so it will never be out of sight. Although he’s content for  _ Minho  _ to be tattooed at his side, never out of reach. That will suffice just fine, he thinks. 

And if you asked Changbin, he’d tell you wholeheartedly that the world  _ needs  _ Lee Minho. 

_  
  
  
_

XXX

_  
  
  
_

**Channie Bangie:** binnie?? Are you ok?

_ Sent at 2:47 p.m. _

**Channie Bangie:** Changbin PLEASE respond or I WILL come over there right now

**Channie Bangie:** I’m really worried about you, please just let me know you’re ok? 

_ Sent at 3:25 p.m.  _

**Binnie:** chan hyung! I’m so sorry I didn't reply! I didn't mean to make you worry!

_ Sent at 8:17 p.m. _

**Channie Bangie:** there you are bin! Don’t apologize, i'm just glad you're ok. Where were you, though? You usually answer after a while :/

**Binnie:** ah, i was out doing stuff. I actually met a guy 

**Binnie:** that i kinda……..like

**Binnie:** we talked for like 2 hours straight lmao i think i'm kinda sorta in love? mayhaps? 

**Channie Bangie:** ?!??!?!?? 

**Channie Bangie:** DO TELL!! WHOMST

**Channie Bangie:** how did u two meet?? tell me everything!!

**Binnie:** aha hyung it’s a long story. I'll tell you over dinner one day. But his name is minho, and he's super cute and funny and I think he really...gets me? 

**Binnie:** I’m actually gonna spot him some money for a dance thing he’s a part of, and he’s gonna move in with me and help with income so we can find a bigger place soon. 

**Binnie:** I'll probably end up asking my folks for some $$$, but it's cute how much he wants to chip in and help

**Channie Bangie:** he’s moving in??? And you met him TODAY??? 

**Binnie:** uhhhhhhhh yeah?

**Binnie:** I know it sounds crazy, but I think we’re really going to be good for each other. Trust me.

**Chananie Bangie:** you know i always trust your judgement, bin! Just make sure he’s not, ya know, a serial killer or something. Or has a foot kink. Idk which is worse. 

**Binnie:** the foot kink hyung. Always the foot kink. 

**Binnie:** but I think we're in the clear on the foot-loving sociopath front, don’t worry hyung

**Channie Bangie:** good! When can I come over and meet him? 

**Binnie:** hmmmm well I do owe you a movie

**Binnie:** so how about dinner and a movie tomorrow right? All three of us? My treat!

**Channie Bangie:** it’s a date! Well, i'll be the awkward third wheel, but it’ll be a date for you two ^^

**Binnie:** oh shut up Channie hyung! 

**Channie Bangie:** aha you know I’m kidding~ 

_ Sent at 8:29 p.m _

**Binnie:** oh btw chan hyung 

_ Sent at 8:41 p.m. _

**Binnie:** u still have my spare key right? 

**Channie Bangie:** uhhh yeah? why 

**Binnie:** I may or may not have locked myself out of my apartment? can u come over real quick and let me in? 

**Channie Bangie:** how the hell did u manage that, seo changbin? 

**Binnie:** aaaahhh it's a long story! i left my keys inside bc of dumb, stupid reasons 

**Channie Bangie:** ugh, you and your long story excuses >:( how long can a story be, huh?!

**Channie Bangie:** but ok, i'll be over in 10. stay put, don't talk to strangers, don't do drugs, stay in school 

**Binnie:** im safe and sound in my building’s lobby hyungie~ i'll make you some cocoa once u let me in as thanks

**Channie Bangie:** ah, you know my ultimate weakness! I better hurry! see you soon binbin

**Channie Bangie:** i love you 

**Binnie:** bye hyung, see you soon

**Binnie:** I love you too 

_ Sent at 8:51 p.m  _

**Author's Note:**

> Just to reiterate: this fic was based on MY DEPRESSION. If you disagree with anything i included, please don’t comment any hate. It took me a while to scrounge up the courage to post this, so please dont make me regret doing so. 
> 
> (Also, if anyone’s curious: my depression has improved quite a bit since i became a stay, and i have not attempted suicide once in the year i have been in the fandom. Thank you stray kids, for being my reason.)


End file.
